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(Fark)   Welcome to the 2018 Fark Halloween Scary Story thread! Does your story scare more people than this week's news? Prove it! Top 10 Scariest (SMART) and Funniest (FUNNY) voted stories will earn their writer a month of TotalFark   (fark.com) divider line
    More: Scary, spooky stuff, 2008 singles, 2007 singles, time, Vincent, Lucy, Rebecca, Ruh ruh ruh  
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2877 clicks; posted to Main » and Discussion » on 01 Nov 2018 at 3:57 AM (2 years ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook



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2018-10-30 9:03:16 PM  
For some reason no one wants to live in that house on 5th Avenue, though it satisfies at least two of the three criteria for desirable real estate: It wins on location and location, convenient to schools, shopping and Downtown and the Capital complex. It falls short on the third point because it's located on a commuter route in an otherwise quiet residential area. That doesn't seem to matter to other houses in the same neighborhood; even the more humble houses were consistently occupied. This Victorian had sat empty for six months without a renter (though not for lack of walk-throughs) when one of my my clients, a property manager, asked me to produce a virtual tour of it for his Web site. The previous tenants had moved out at the end of their lease with no explanation. "We're done here, thanks."

I show up with my camera gear in the early afternoon, glad I don't have to use any of my lights. The manager gave me two keys: The door latch and the deadbolt. The first key slips into the lock and turns smoothly. The next key slides the deadbolt into its hidey-hole. I step inside.

The interior is modern but era-appropriate, as they say in the real estate business. It has high ceilings, blond hardwood floors, ample windows with lots of natural light, and a separate dining room adjoining the living room and kitchen. The back of the kitchen led to the stairs that descended to the basement. The first thought I had as I surveyed the house was how glad I am I don't have to go down there. With no carpets or furniture, every sound reverberates. Whatever is in the basement kicks and rumbles at its pleasure.

I'm just shooting the main floor and upstairs. I set up my tripod in the living room, and began taking the series of photos that would later be assembled into the virtual tour. A full panorama of a room--all four walls, ceiling, and floor--is made of about 72 individual photos, but I take a lot more than that to be sure no shots are over- or under-exposed. Fortunately, I didn't need to shoot much of the ceiling and floor for most of the tour. It took about half an hour to finish the ground floor.

"I'm glad I don't have to go downstairs" started to be drowned out by "I wish I didn't have to go upstairs." But I did. And what is that sound coming from the basement? How does it move throughout the house so wallelessly?

Upstairs isn't much: three bedrooms and a bathroom; a bit gloomier and yellower. And I really wish I could leave right now. Which is stupid, it's a house and I have a job to do. Good thing I don't have to do full room panoramas. I set up the tripod in the doorway of the bathroom, then the bedroom at the end of the hall. I hated having my back turned to the rooms behind me. I moved on to the second bedroom, the master.

This is where she died, alone and afraid and afraid angry. The bed was over there, and maybe it still is. If the bed is still there, maybe she is, too. I finish the shot and move to the third bedroom. I hope I didn't wake anyone up in the other room. I set up, didn't even bother to level the camera head, and shot a dozen or so photos, and hustled downstairs. I didn't even collapse the tripod.

I still have to shoot the entryway, between the base of the stairs and the front door. A full panorama, at least 72 photos, probably more. I level the camera head and start to shoot. I can see through the dining room to the kitchen and the door to the basement, and again I'm glad I don't have to go down there. I wish I could just come back later with the client, make up an excuse to have someone else in this house with me. That would be unprofessional, so I keep shooting. Somehow the basement sounds are starting to come from upstairs: A creak. A click. A sigh. As I'm shooting the stairs, I keep expecting to see a slippered foot descend. I cut every corner possible and shoot until I'm done. I grab my tripod and step out to the front porch. I'm outside; it's over. I just need to lock up. They key slides in smoothly, but it won't turn to lock. I rattle the key; the lock rattles back. The lock turns a quarter turn and turns back against my key, and finally turns to lock and I hear the deadbolt slide home with no key to slide it. No, I did not just hear that. I did not just hear that. I'm outside; there are people and cars, and I chuck my equipment into the car and get the Hell out of there.

When I met the client the next day, I said I think I know why the owner has such a hard time finding tenants. He said "Yep. The master bedroom doesn't help, does it?"
 
2018-10-30 9:06:38 PM  

a particular individual: Someone complained that I didn't re-post this last year, so here it is again.

=================

Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore


Danny Nero shot my brother in the belly. I was 9 or 10, so my brother, Mark, was about 11, and Danny was maybe 13. Danny was crazy, but not in the way people like; and though his weapon was a Daisy air rifle, I'm sure if he'd had a real rifle he would have used it. Even before he shot Mark, I knew what he was: I had a dream that he blinded and killed a midget just for fun. When I woke up, I wasn't sure if it was a dream or a memory. I don't know where Danny is now, but if I had to wager, I'd put my money on prison. If I had to hedge my bet, I'd put a few bucks on dead.
Danny's dad came home from work that day and smashed the pellet gun against a tree. I never met his dad, but other kids said Danny was his father's son, so I'm guessing his dad smashed the gun not because what Danny did was wrong, but because it was dumb, and they both could have got into trouble. I feared for Danny's little brother, David, who was about my age, and his little sister, Danielle, who was maybe six. Normal kids. Some of the scariest people start out as normal kids.
A few weeks after the air rifle incident, the Neros moved away. It was such a relief, I couldn't adapt to it at first. Their house had been a hazard to avoid when I visited that block. Now I wouldn't have to walk on the other side of the street. I kept telling myself: "It's just a house. It's just a house. Danny doesn't live there anymore." Let's say it was out of habit that I kept walking on the other side, anyway.


[img.fark.net image 617x781][img.fark.net image 24x24]

###

Our best friends, the Welches, lived between us and Danny's house. The Kaliczeks, Rick and Matt, were farther up the hill. They had older ties to the Welches, and they were a little older than Mark and me, so they were friends of ours, but mostly just friends of friends.
Rick was going places; you could tell. A little befo ...


Thanks for posting it this year. It's one of my favorites.
 
2018-10-30 9:07:53 PM  
One night I did the farks after drinking bottle of scotch. The next day? The replies.

OoooOooOooo *thud*
 
2018-10-30 9:09:44 PM  

a particular individual: For some reason no one wants to live in that house on 5th Avenue, though it satisfies at least two of the three criteria for desirable real estate: It wins on location and location, convenient to schools, shopping and Downtown and the Capital complex. It falls short on the third point because it's located on a commuter route in an otherwise quiet residential area. That doesn't seem to matter to other houses in the same neighborhood; even the more humble houses were consistently occupied. This Victorian had sat empty for six months without a renter (though not for lack of walk-throughs) when one of my my clients, a property manager, asked me to produce a virtual tour of it for his Web site. The previous tenants had moved out at the end of their lease with no explanation. "We're done here, thanks."

I show up with my camera gear in the early afternoon, glad I don't have to use any of my lights. The manager gave me two keys: The door latch and the deadbolt. The first key slips into the lock and turns smoothly. The next key slides the deadbolt into its hidey-hole. I step inside.

The interior is modern but era-appropriate, as they say in the real estate business. It has high ceilings, blond hardwood floors, ample windows with lots of natural light, and a separate dining room adjoining the living room and kitchen. The back of the kitchen led to the stairs that descended to the basement. The first thought I had as I surveyed the house was how glad I am I don't have to go down there. With no carpets or furniture, every sound reverberates. Whatever is in the basement kicks and rumbles at its pleasure.

I'm just shooting the main floor and upstairs. I set up my tripod in the living room, and began taking the series of photos that would later be assembled into the virtual tour. A full panorama of a room--all four walls, ceiling, and floor--is made of about 72 individual photos, but I take a lot more than that to be sure no shots are over- or under-exposed. Fortunately, I didn't need to shoot much of the ceiling and floor for most of the tour. It took about half an hour to finish the ground floor.

"I'm glad I don't have to go downstairs" started to be drowned out by "I wish I didn't have to go upstairs." But I did. And what is that sound coming from the basement? How does it move throughout the house so wallelessly?

Upstairs isn't much: three bedrooms and a bathroom; a bit gloomier and yellower. And I really wish I could leave right now. Which is stupid, it's a house and I have a job to do. Good thing I don't have to do full room panoramas. I set up the tripod in the doorway of the bathroom, then the bedroom at the end of the hall. I hated having my back turned to the rooms behind me. I moved on to the second bedroom, the master.

This is where she died, alone and afraid and afraid angry. The bed was over there, and maybe it still is. If the bed is still there, maybe she is, too. I finish the shot and move to the third bedroom. I hope I didn't wake anyone up in the other room. I set up, didn't even bother to level the camera head, and shot a dozen or so photos, and hustled downstairs. I didn't even collapse the tripod.

I still have to shoot the entryway, between the base of the stairs and the front door. A full panorama, at least 72 photos, probably more. I level the camera head and start to shoot. I can see through the dining room to the kitchen and the door to the basement, and again I'm glad I don't have to go down there. I wish I could just come back later with the client, make up an excuse to have someone else in this house with me. That would be unprofessional, so I keep shooting. Somehow the basement sounds are starting to come from upstairs: A creak. A click. A sigh. As I'm shooting the stairs, I keep expecting to see a slippered foot descend. I cut every corner possible and shoot until I'm done. I grab my tripod and step out to the front porch. I'm outside; it's over. I just need to lock up. They key slides in smoothly, but it won't turn to lock. I rattle the key; the lock rattles back. The lock turns a quarter turn and turns back against my key, and finally turns to lock and I hear the deadbolt slide home with no key to slide it. No, I did not just hear that. I did not just hear that. I'm outside; there are people and cars, and I chuck my equipment into the car and get the Hell out of there.

When I met the client the next day, I said I think I know why the owner has such a hard time finding tenants. He said "Yep. The master bedroom doesn't help, does it?"


I am a collateral inspector on the weekends.  I hate some of the vacant houses I have to walk through.  There is one with an upstairs that bothers me.   I think it is because there are broken windows and I live in a windy area, or because I suspect there are squatters who go there at night.  Either way, I think I might open carry the next time I go there.
 
2018-10-30 9:11:33 PM  

Resident Muslim: misanthropic1: Resident Muslim: ObscureNameHere: Resident Muslim: Sorry for the wall of text. Couldn't tell my story in a shorter way without context.

God is all merciful and compassionate, I worry about my standing with him, but not as much as I worry of how I have affected or harmed other humans I have dealt with and will be held accountable for. To me, this story represents that.

/now I need to go do something so/until the blood comes back to my face

Sorry, gonna be that:  so WHAT exactly did you uncover about the body?

It appreared to be the back of his head.
Just the bald head.
I kept expecting to lower the wrap and see a face, but no. Nothing. Just bald head, and freaked out when I saw the tufts of hair and my mind kept trying to rationalize that it's his beard, and I'm like "there is NO FACE ABOVE IT"

Otherwise I'm a fairly solid, adventurous guy.

Great. Now I feel the blood draining from my face again.

Occam's razor would rather dictate that it *was* the back of his head, no?

It would, so options are:
(Take a look at the picture in the grave I posted in the original post before continuing)

1) paranormal
2) someone broke his neck and twisted his face all the way around
3) someone folded his arms BEHIND his back and wrapped him that way AND we didn't notice his feet

Not much better, right?


Not to cast any aspersions on your asparagus, but I thought it was scary because of reason #2 right there. Like some divine agent reached down and said, "Nope, we'll make sure you're pointed the wrong direction for heaven no matter how they bury you!" *SKRRNCH* "Wander the earth walking backwards for the rest of eternity!"

Or, you know, a family member.

Like that one grave with the finger pointing down. They usually point UP. "Straight to heaven!" Nope, not this guy.
images.findagrave.comView Full Size


(Also, I have a web serial. I forgot to put that in my post for the free advertising. And I left out a double space paragraph. Boy, do I feel dumb.)
 
2018-10-30 9:13:47 PM  
This one time.... someone gifted me a month of Total Fark... and I went into TFD!

img.fark.netView Full Size


AWOOOOOOOO spooky
 
2018-10-30 9:14:27 PM  

Bathia_Mapes: a particular individual: Someone complained that I didn't re-post this last year, so here it is again.

=================

Danny Doesn't Live There Anymore


Danny Nero shot my brother in the belly. I was 9 or 10, so my brother, Mark, was about 11, and Danny was maybe 13. Danny was crazy, but not in the way people like; and though his weapon was a Daisy air rifle, I'm sure if he'd had a real rifle he would have used it. Even before he shot Mark, I knew what he was: I had a dream that he blinded and killed a midget just for fun. When I woke up, I wasn't sure if it was a dream or a memory. I don't know where Danny is now, but if I had to wager, I'd put my money on prison. If I had to hedge my bet, I'd put a few bucks on dead.
Danny's dad came home from work that day and smashed the pellet gun against a tree. I never met his dad, but other kids said Danny was his father's son, so I'm guessing his dad smashed the gun not because what Danny did was wrong, but because it was dumb, and they both could have got into trouble. I feared for Danny's little brother, David, who was about my age, and his little sister, Danielle, who was maybe six. Normal kids. Some of the scariest people start out as normal kids.
A few weeks after the air rifle incident, the Neros moved away. It was such a relief, I couldn't adapt to it at first. Their house had been a hazard to avoid when I visited that block. Now I wouldn't have to walk on the other side of the street. I kept telling myself: "It's just a house. It's just a house. Danny doesn't live there anymore." Let's say it was out of habit that I kept walking on the other side, anyway.


[img.fark.net image 617x781][img.fark.net image 24x24]

###

Our best friends, the Welches, lived between us and Danny's house. The Kaliczeks, Rick and Matt, were farther up the hill. They had older ties to the Welches, and they were a little older than Mark and me, so they were friends of ours, but mostly just friends of friends.
Rick was going places; you ...


Thanks! Glad you like it. Everything is true, up to the part where it isn't.
 
2018-10-30 9:17:28 PM  
I live south of the Navajo reservation in Arizona and this is shapeshifter country. There are quite a few people (non-Native Americans) who will swear up and down that they've seen them. About 10 years before I was born, my dad had moved back from Milpitas, California, kind of near where he worked at the GM plant (now Tesla) in Fremont. He got sick of California in the 60s, and came back to Arizona to be a logger and get away from the crowds.

He was separated from his first wife and living in a little adobe rental just outside of town called Tortilla Flat in the mid-60s and working on the Apache reservation at Whiteriver. He said he always hated that little rental house because it was out in the middle of a field with one tree next to it, so the wind and cold air would just blow on that thing constantly. It's windy like 300 days a year here because of our altitude (7200 feet) and unique geography.

One night happened to be really clear and still, with a full-ish moon, after a snowstorm -- one of those nights where you don't need headlights or flashlights to see anything outside. My dad said he couldn't sleep one night because it was just too quiet without any wind. He got up, lit a cigarette, and was looking out the window that faced east toward Picnic Hill. All of a sudden, he sees somebody running along the long barbed-wire fence that abuts the highway. He thinks, "Who the hell is running out at night?" He was thinking anybody running in that kind of cold must be in trouble -- maybe a car accident. He got up to put his jacket on while still looking out. Then he noticed that whoever was running was doing it awfully fast. Unnaturally fast. He's squinting, trying to get a better look at a distance.

It was an animal of some kind. Black, and with a dog-like snout -- running on two legs, at about 40 miles an hour. Just as my dad starts to freak out, the animal turns and starts running straight towards his little adobe house. My dad locked the door, closed the curtain, and grabbed the .45 ACP he bought off a biker in San Jose. He hears something walk around the entire house, breathing deeply, and walk away. He didn't sleep the entire night and didn't go to work until the sun came up. Normally, loggers are out before the sun is up so they can start working at first light. When he left the house in the morning, he looked around the entire house -- no footprints in the snow. Not even cats or dogs.
 
2018-10-30 9:21:09 PM  
Predictions for 2019: A Scene

(It is 3:30am in a dark, tastefully furnished bedroom, as its occupants snore in small, faint gasps. A LANDLINE PHONE on a bedside table begins to RING, and as the man in bed sleepily reaches for it we see that he is none other than FORMER PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA. He looks at the clock in disbelief for a beat and brings the phone to his ear. The VOICE on the other end is achingly familiar.)

O: Yeah. Hello?
D: (sniffling, blubbering) Uh
O: Hello? This is Barack. (Silence.) Who is this?
D: Uh I Look I um
O: Sorry. Is this...? Mr. President? Is that you?

(It is. PRESIDENT DONALD TRUMP is at his empty desk snorting LINES OF KETAMINE and trying to hide the telephone cradled in his shoulder.)

D: Yeah look I uhhhh um
O: You know, it's three in the morning here. Is there...? Something I can help you with?
D: Yeah look okay what I'm trying to say here is (mumbles, trails off)
O: ...I'm sorry?

(There is a sniffle, a big one.)

O: Hello? Mr. President?
D: Hey you know maybe you can call me Donald
O: Okay. Donald. (Silence.) What can I do for you?
D: I just wanted to say that maybe things got a little out of hand for a while and I just think that maybe all the things that people were saying uhhhh (sniffs) various people including perhaps myself was you know maybe taken a little out of context (sniffing) if you catch my meaning but really (sniffle) what I'm saying here is that maybe I didn't uhhhh um
O: You didn't what, Donald?
D: I didn't maybe understand you know (sniff) the full gravity of the situation and the way things are around here (smaller sniff, snort) at the time and I just wanted to say to you personally you know (snorting) that maybe I didn't have the fullest grasp of just how much pressure could be involved with this sort of thing (snerk) huge huge pressures here if you know what I'm saying to you
O: Nnnnnnno, I can't say that I do, uh- Donald. What are you saying?

(President Donald is blubbering, and soon the tears are streaming down his leathered cheeks as he can no longer contain the raw waves of guilt, anxiety, and pure emotion. Barack speaks and he explodes, cracking like a porcelain eggshell.)

O: ...Donald?
D: (suddenly wailing) OH JESUS BARRY THEY'RE EATING ME ALIVE
O: Uh boy.
D: (sobbing) GOD HELP ME THEY'RE RIPPING ME APART AND I DIDN'T KNOW (he is having a fit) OH GOD I JUST DIDN'T KNOW, BUT IT'S MURDER AND IT'S KILLING ME, MAN (he takes deep panic breaths that continue throughout)
O: Now, okay, now, Donald, it's okay. I know it's 24-7 there in the Oval Office but I'm sure if you just take a second and-
D: YOU DON'T GET IT MAN (he shrieks) YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND
O: What don't I understand? Donald?
D: (stops whimpering to yell) I CALLED SATAN AND HE DOESN'T EVEN WANT MY SOUL, MAN
O: Your what?
D: HE WAS MY LAST OPTION, MAN (sobs, then screams) I NEEDED THE DARK ONE ON THIS, MAN AND NOW I GOT NOTHING (snort) OH BARRY I'M SO SCREWWWWWED

(Barack rubs his eyes.)

O: Three AM, Donald. A-M.

END SCENE
 
2018-10-30 9:21:44 PM  
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 9:22:04 PM  

ecmoRandomNumbers: I live south of the Navajo reservation in Arizona and this is shapeshifter country. There are quite a few people (non-Native Americans) who will swear up and down that they've seen them. About 10 years before I was born, my dad had moved back from Milpitas, California, kind of near where he worked at the GM plant (now Tesla) in Fremont. He got sick of California in the 60s, and came back to Arizona to be a logger and get away from the crowds.

He was separated from his first wife and living in a little adobe rental just outside of town called Tortilla Flat in the mid-60s and working on the Apache reservation at Whiteriver. He said he always hated that little rental house because it was out in the middle of a field with one tree next to it, so the wind and cold air would just blow on that thing constantly. It's windy like 300 days a year here because of our altitude (7200 feet) and unique geography.

One night happened to be really clear and still, with a full-ish moon, after a snowstorm -- one of those nights where you don't need headlights or flashlights to see anything outside. My dad said he couldn't sleep one night because it was just too quiet without any wind. He got up, lit a cigarette, and was looking out the window that faced east toward Picnic Hill. All of a sudden, he sees somebody running along the long barbed-wire fence that abuts the highway. He thinks, "Who the hell is running out at night?" He was thinking anybody running in that kind of cold must be in trouble -- maybe a car accident. He got up to put his jacket on while still looking out. Then he noticed that whoever was running was doing it awfully fast. Unnaturally fast. He's squinting, trying to get a better look at a distance.

It was an animal of some kind. Black, and with a dog-like snout -- running on two legs, at about 40 miles an hour. Just as my dad starts to freak out, the animal turns and starts running straight towards his little adobe house. My dad locked the door, closed the curtain, and grabbed the .45 ACP he bought off a biker in San Jose. He hears something walk around the entire house, breathing deeply, and walk away. He didn't sleep the entire night and didn't go to work until the sun came up. Normally, loggers are out before the sun is up so they can start working at first light. When he left the house in the morning, he looked around the entire house -- no footprints in the snow. Not even cats or dogs.


Skinwalkers?
 
2018-10-30 9:22:58 PM  

eyeq360: ecmoRandomNumbers: I live south of the Navajo reservation in Arizona and this is shapeshifter country. There are quite a few people (non-Native Americans) who will swear up and down that they've seen them. About 10 years before I was born, my dad had moved back from Milpitas, California, kind of near where he worked at the GM plant (now Tesla) in Fremont. He got sick of California in the 60s, and came back to Arizona to be a logger and get away from the crowds.

He was separated from his first wife and living in a little adobe rental just outside of town called Tortilla Flat in the mid-60s and working on the Apache reservation at Whiteriver. He said he always hated that little rental house because it was out in the middle of a field with one tree next to it, so the wind and cold air would just blow on that thing constantly. It's windy like 300 days a year here because of our altitude (7200 feet) and unique geography.

One night happened to be really clear and still, with a full-ish moon, after a snowstorm -- one of those nights where you don't need headlights or flashlights to see anything outside. My dad said he couldn't sleep one night because it was just too quiet without any wind. He got up, lit a cigarette, and was looking out the window that faced east toward Picnic Hill. All of a sudden, he sees somebody running along the long barbed-wire fence that abuts the highway. He thinks, "Who the hell is running out at night?" He was thinking anybody running in that kind of cold must be in trouble -- maybe a car accident. He got up to put his jacket on while still looking out. Then he noticed that whoever was running was doing it awfully fast. Unnaturally fast. He's squinting, trying to get a better look at a distance.

It was an animal of some kind. Black, and with a dog-like snout -- running on two legs, at about 40 miles an hour. Just as my dad starts to freak out, the animal turns and starts running straight towards his little adobe house. My dad locked the door, closed the curtain, and grabbed the .45 ACP he bought off a biker in San Jose. He hears something walk around the entire house, breathing deeply, and walk away. He didn't sleep the entire night and didn't go to work until the sun came up. Normally, loggers are out before the sun is up so they can start working at first light. When he left the house in the morning, he looked around the entire house -- no footprints in the snow. Not even cats or dogs.

Skinwalkers?


Texas Skinrangers
 
2018-10-30 9:23:53 PM  
Oh, and Trump is going to win a second term by a landslide.
 
2018-10-30 9:31:50 PM  

eyeq360: Skinwalkers?


Yup.

yee naaldlooshii
 
2018-10-30 9:38:11 PM  
This once when I was in high school, I was supposed to take this girl to a dance but I ended up taking a prettier girl who was also very nice. The other girl's mother was outraged and little did I know, also a hoodoo witch - she placed upon me the curse of the unclean anus. No matter how many times I wiped my arse, I couldn't get all the poop off .The paper was always brown. After about a month, my arse looked like one of those mandrill baboon monkey's .
Anyblah, I eventually was able to get someone close enough to the woman & place one of my pubic hairs on her can of Coca-Cola. She drank it & that broke the curse. Also, whenever I masturbated after that I could hear that old woman waaay in the distance moaning "give me that buttermilk, baby, gimme that buttermilk!" (Shivers)
 
2018-10-30 10:01:19 PM  
#REAL HAUNTED MANSION GHOST.
I don't quite know what made her do it...I've asked her a number of times, why? Why here?

But she never answers me. It's very frustrating.

It's not like here is bad, really. It's gothic and charming if you're the kind of person who wishes halloween was year round. The place is kept up well and the staff are mostly kind here in a way that being allowed to play surly at your job affords a person. That very much suits my personality, so we get on just fine.
The routine does get a bit mundane, but what place doesn't after a few, years? I think it's been a few anyway it's easy to lose track of time in this place. Fashion is so vacation-oriented that it all blends together into an endless summer season, so I judge the passage of time from her visits. She's still look beautiful as the day we met!

It's only a few times a year, but it still does my heart good every time I see her. She's moving a bit slower now, but she still glides like a lady. My wife is such a sweetheart, and she loves this place so much. Happiest Place on Earth? That's a bit much when she's here with the kids! Plus, when you're here 24/7 - 365, jesus any place can get under your skin after a while. You need a change of scenery from the same old, 1000 yards? At least I think that's right? I've tried to measure how far I can go before I spring back to my anchor point, but it's not like I can hold an iPhone.

That would make this odd afterlife infinitely better and somehow worse? It's kind of good to be cut off from the world on vacation once and a while, with no smartphone tethered at your side, friends and family close. That's the best. You can concentrate on what's really important and there in the now. You learn that as you get older, because time keeps passing faster every year. But endless vacation isn't all it's cracked up to be either, even in a theme park.

Time doesn't really exist for me now, at least in the conventional sense. It's like I fade in and out to somewhere else every once in a while. When it happens, I feel like Captain Kirk in his 60's mod-cool spacesuit trapped in the alternate universe waiting for Spock, McCoy Scotty to rescue him. it's that feeling of being trapped between two worlds. Is it heaven, or reincarnation or the end of my existence at last? I wish I knew, but it doesn't feel like a scary place when I go there, it just feels like everything and nothing all at the same time.

Life couldn't be better in so many ways. No bills to pay, no food to buy or consume. Nobody tells me what to do or shuns me like they would if I were homeless and just hanging around. They can't see more than the vaguest notion of me. Can they feel me? I think so, it's unclear. The others tell me they can, and Harry has even freaked guests out by "touching" them. I've seen him make them jump! But I can't do it...

I can make some lights flicker, and I'm pretty sure I moved a dime someone dropped, but it could have been gravity, ok, probably gravity or the wind. That's about my afterlife skillset so far.
I want to be able to "push" objects like some of the others. I'd really like to do some serious haunted stuff, but here no one would really notice. We're all just another clever part of the F/X. That Walt! Even in the afterlife he's able to get the best deals. He's not here though, at least not in the Mansion. He probably haunts some private part of Disney where the elite people go to play, with Winston Churchill's ghost, smoking cigars. Walt was a big smoker. They photoshop his ever present cigarette out the the picture these days, and that's lead to the Disney point! The things you learn when you can eavesdrop on the staff.

The Mansion is the most prime ghost real-estate if you ask me. I thank God every day that my wife didn't dump me in the ocean, I wouldn't have wanted to be stuck playing aqua-ghost with the fishes.  Or just wander around a grave yard reading the headstones, and thinking, wow, a lot of dead people here. Why I am the only one, still wandering around like an idiot? Hello there, Mister squirrel, enjoying the graves, are you?
I'm not quite the only one, but most people must have been smart enough to go into the wormhole, or afterlife, or blissful non-existence and not hold on, like I did.

It seems like it's a bit different for everyone. That's what made me think I should communicate how it's been
for me so far. I can only hope this works, I've tried so many times.

There are three of us here at the Mansion that I know personally, and I think there are a couple of others hiding out, still trying to find their voice. It can be hard to speak up when you're the new ghost in town, and still finding your feet. Not really feet, more like an amorphous electrified mist in a vaguely human form and nobody notices! I'm working the room here people, thank you very much for not noticing! Pew! Pew!

No pew pew yet...

There is always more learning to do, even in the afterlife, figures that's how it would be. At least it keeps me busy. There are tons of electronic gadgets here, more behind the scenes magic, which it's a lot of fun to wander around and see how the sausage is made. The amount of technology that goes into the dancing ghosts, or the floating crystal ball, is truly something to admire. It's even more amazing to me when they turn the lights on for maintenance.

I love the old school peppers ghost illusions along with all the new high tech stuff they've installed over the years. It's just the right amount of nostalgia, with enough new to keep things interesting. Those imagineers, they know there stuff, and I was always a dark ride kind of person anyway. My uncle used to run a little dark ride attraction at the local fair, and scare the hell out of us kids. Hooked me for life!


I have nothing to complain about, really. No bills to pay as a.... ghost? Am I a ghost, I suppose the answer must be yes. I still exist without my body, and can "see" and "hear" the world around me, but it's different that I thought it would be.

Of course I never realized that death is an asshole if you don't follow it's plan to the letter. Basically, my
afterlife is playing by something like Bettlejuice meets ghost rules, with a dash of Peter Jackson's the Frightnerers thrown in for good measure. It figures.

I loved those movie as a kid, and don't think organized religious got me. Six days? That's not right? Had to take a bit more time than that? Are those god days, cause time does more differently for me here? Anyway, t'was science fiction and horror films that always fascinated me, and here I am?
Welcome to my afterlife.

I'm still waiting for my Handbook, assholes! I've had nothing to go on, nobody here really seems to know anything about it either, and some have been here a lot longer than me. Harry helped build the place, and died a month before it officially opened.

He's been here since before the doors opened to the public on October 1, 1971. He said he met Walt twice when he was alive, and that he was a good guy, and even a bit of a womanizer when he hit the "sauce" too heavily.  I love how Harry talks, he has such a wonderful way of saying things. He died on vacation in Vegas, before he make the trop to O'town to be here with me. He has that old-school rat pack cool, that George Clooney in any movie besides Tomorrowland cool. He makes me feel like I'm there when he talks about the old days.

I say old school, but he's not the oldest spirit in the mansion. That title belongs to a Seminole Indian ghost. I can't tell you his name, he won't even tell me!

He says it would give us power over him in this form, but I call bullshiat. He's just being text-book enigmatic! "Oh I could say it but you couldn't pronounce it and you head would explode like a watermelon getting hit by a shotgun", young child of the white invaders. He wouldn't use that metaphor, by the way, that watermelon metaphor is all mine. I've taken to calling him Spock.
Spock's only here every once in a great while, because he can wander far and wide over his land, unlike the rest of us. Perks of his belief system, I guess. He was lucky enough to drop dead in the vacation capital of the world near the site of the haunted mansion. It's not home base for him, like the rest of us. His spawn point is quite a bit farther away, in part of the property where Disney is building a Star Wars theme park.
He's going to get to be there on day one, lucky.

The rest of us, we're stuck here. Riding doom buggies and cutting in line while no one notices. Well I think my wife has noticed a few times. I tend to get a lot more powerful when she's around, out of pure excitement. I've even blown a few of the old-style light bulbs that they use in parts of the attraction, much to the irritation of maintenance! Sorry about the ones in the ceiling, fellas! I'm just trying to figure out my ghost powers!
Yes, let's stick with ghost it works without getting too metaphysical. Spirt, apparition, disembodied consciousness made of some kind of energy floating in the void. It's NOT midichloridans though, I refuse to believe I'm made of that. I'll have no part of that in my personal force. I just realized how similar ghost powers and force powers are... The things you think about, when you have the time. Take Mary for example. She arrived in 1978.

Mary is obsessed with trains and rode them all around the world. She has amazing knowledge of how the track system works that the Doom Buggies run on, and all kinds of nifty abilities when it comes to the mechanical switches that make things work here. Together we've managed to stop the track running, so we can watch the people in the buggies get nervous as they wait in one mart of the maze. I bet you could get some proof of our existence with that kind of piercing of the veil between our realities!
I hope that sounded spooky!

I wouldn't mind them bringing in some TV ghostbusters to see if I can move the meters on their odd-mix of scientific instruments. They tend to scare easily, so I think I could get a good yelp out of one of them if I tried.
Still, I'm figuring things out. Not quite as gone as you would think for a dead guy.

I was a hacker in life, and now I am one in death. When you get right down to it, if I can pulse a light, I can do more. It's all on and off switches, as ones and zeros in here. All that time studying networking protocols is actually coming in handy these days. It helps me mediate in such a way that I am just starting to be able to reach out on line. It's 56k modem speeds so far, so I'm not streaming Netflix but it's an outlet to the world. TCP/IP isn't so hard to think in. I'm just glad I only need to think in v4 to get my point across. At least until they patch the firmware of their firewall. Technically, I think I would be classified as EMI. Or perhaps something we don't have a name for yet.

Has it come across?

Am I transmitting?
 
2018-10-30 10:03:07 PM  
Once when I was a boy walking to school, I saw a possum get its head grazed by one of the front tires of a passing car. Instead of dying right away, it kept walking around in the middle of the street in a 10 foot circle about five or six times before collapsing dead.
 
2018-10-30 10:04:37 PM  

HedlessChickn: Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.


Dammit that was my story, too :(
Scariest Fricken' thing in my world.
 
2018-10-30 10:08:10 PM  
Twenty years ago, my 17 year old sister in law suffered a terrible head injury in a car accident. It took days before the doctors made the decision to halt life support. When my wife, the kids and I got home that night from the hospital, I opened the patio door to freshen the house while my wife  started talking to the kids about Aunty Lisa and how we will remember her through our memories of her. My five year old son says, " It's okay Mommy, Aunty Lisa's come to visit." While he is saying this, he's pointing to the patio door. My wife turned, looked at the door then looked back at me as the color drained from her face. I turned around and there was Lisa framed in the doorway.
We were frozen in our tracks for what seemed an eternity. She had that impish grin on her face that she always had when she was around the kids. My wife and daughter  started crying as she faded away. My kids have never forgotten the visit from Lisa and we still talk about it to this day.
 
2018-10-30 10:27:57 PM  
I've told this story in past scary story threads but here it is again.

My wife and I were living in a bad neighborhood in Sioux Falls, SD. This is how bad it was. There was a park nearby that nobody ever went to because the neighbors all called it Needle Park. One night I was outside smoking a cigarette and I see this little red hatchback pull onto French St. which was 2 blocks away. They stop and one of the 3 people in the vehicle push something out off the car onto the street. From my view it looks like trash in a garbage bag. I'm watching the news the next morning and there's a story on there about 3 men who worked at the local John Morrell meat packing plant that killed their roommate and dumped his body on the street from their red hatchback.

My company had recently sent my entire departments job's to India But I was able to get a position with another tech company. My wife and I were looking for a new place that was cheap had had enough space for us and our 2 daughters at the time. We found it in a rather old trailer. It was made in 1974 and was an ugly yellow with brown shutters, but it was big, something like 2000 sq feet.So we agreed to rent it from this nice lesbian couple.

In the beginning we would notice things like footsteps at night. We chalked this up to the age of the trailer and it's construction as settling. As time progressed we started noticing things like doors and cupboards slamming closed and the toilet in the main bathroom would flush randomly even after I had my uncle the plumber replace it's insides.

Then periodically we'd notice a black smoke coming out of my wife's closet. It never accumulated or anything but we had a friend stay with us when she had National Guard Drill that would also see it. One night my mom had agreed to watch the girls while my wife and I went out for our anniversary. She said she would never do it again as she kept having the feeling of being watched and the black smoke didn't help things either.

I worked from 4pm to 2am at a company that provided movies and video games to the lodging industry. Usually when I got home everyone was asleep with my wife leaving the tv on to Adult Swim in the bedroom so I'd sit at my computer for an hour to wind down. On particular morning I rose from my computer desk located in the middle of the trailer and for some reason I looked to the back bedroom. What I saw was like a 3-dimensiional shadow, all black it was wearing a hood, about 6 feet tall and it turned it's head to look at me then turned it's head back and kind of glided into the room further. I ran into the room after it but found nothing but my wife asleep.

A few months later I can hear my daughters aged 2 and 3 in their room playing. It sounds like they are talking to someone. I enter the room and ask "Who are you talking too?" My oldest replies "We're talking to our baby brother." I say "Oh, what's he look like?" My daughter replies "He has brown hair and white eyes."This makes me think of my sister who was pregnant with child number 2,(she had her kids 11 months apart) and I think she must be having a boy. Sure enough she did.

From this point on my wife and I realized we had the ghost of a child in our home. The things it was doing was for attention. Eventually we started talking to it when we would come home like Hi, how are you, did you have a good day etc. and the activity stopped.
 
2018-10-30 10:32:09 PM  
Back in 1985, I was working at a gas station on Interstate 57.  Watson, Illinois.  You can see it on Google Earth if you want.  It'd been other things since it was a gas station.  The last business that attempted to succeed there was an adult novelty shop.

But in 1985 it was a 24 hour gas station and I worked there for $4.25 an hour from 11pm to 7 am.  The manager said the local sheriff patrolled often but I only saw him once.  He pulled in to the back lot and went to sleep.

The only reason this place was open 24 hours was the caravans of African Americans that drove down I-57 twice a month.  It was said and I have no idea if this were true that they were families of welfare fraudsters.  They'd get their checks in Chicago, drive up to Wisconsin for a second helping and then race to Memphis for a third check.  Again, I don't know how true this was.  All I knew is we would get slammed with four to six cars full of African Americans and all in one big hurry.

So, on a particularly dark night night when the traffic was light, I was listening to the radio.  I was probably supposed to be cleaning.  Pushing that filthy mop with the filthy mop water around the store one more time.  On the radio came an ad and I only heard part of it.  I spent the rest of the night hoping they would play that ad again.  When they did, I turned it up.

The man said that they were hiring workers in Olney Illinois.  Starting pay for first shift $10 an hour!  Second shirt $12 an hour!  Third shift $15 a freaking hour!  I immediately decided 3rd shift was for me.  Fifteen bucks an hour, forty hours puts the take home around $450 maybe.  Plenty of cheap weekly hotels around there.  A guy could work and go to school!  Plenty of money for that!  The radio man gave directions and at 7:05 am, I started out for Olney Illinois.

I was probably still working out the math when I got to the town.  Head south on 130 turn left at the sign.  I will walk in there, win them over with my enthuasism and military experience and tonight I'll be stamping out whatsits on a 1 ton brake machine why not.  Just have to remember to call that gas station and tell them to shove it all up their....  That's what they get for hiring me.

South of town there's a railroad to the left and you have to go up and over the tracks to get to the factory that's hiring.  There were a few cars turning off on to this road, so I knew I had competition.  Ha!  I've got this.  I turn left and follow the car in front of me up and over the train tracks.

Right in to a bunch of pissed of union guys yelling and waving signs.  The car in front of me turns in to the factory parking lot and the union guys scream bloody murder.  I go straight.  Past the factory, past the screaming union guys.  Probably drive 5 or 6 miles down that road before I turned north to get to Route 50.  Went home, got some sleep and went back to the gas station.

A few months later, I'm dong data processing stuff in east St. Louis.  I got a crappy apartment and I'm doing two classes at the community college.  I have forgotten all about Olney Illinois.  One day, I'm going through my mail and there's a card.  It has my previous address on it and it's been forwarded by the postal service.  One the back of the card is one word:  SCAB.  Okay.  Olney is a small town.  Some union guy wrote down license plates and had his cousin in the Olney PD look them up for him.  Fine.  Go to Altamont and try and find your scab, jerk.  Best of luck.  I toss the card and peruse my neighbors copy of Easy Rider which they put in my mailbox every month.

Skip forward another year or so and I'm in a better apartment.  I'm a computer operator on a IBM4381 and going full time to college.  Things are leveling off for old Harry.  One day, in the mail is another card.  This time they have my correct address and and there's that word.  SCAB.  Big, angry block letters.  Okay.  Someone can hold a grudge.  Two days later, I get a letter from Olney Illinois that says "We no who yu are and wer'e comming for you Scab".

Next couple of weeks, I sleep with an Ithica shotgun next to the bed.  In the bathroom in a 22 pistol and a Carcano.  Behind the door is a K-bar knife and on the kitchen counter is a jar of ammonia.  The extent of my personal armory.  My plans are this:  If they kick in the door while I'm sleeping I will have plenty of time to load up the shotgun and blast whoever comes through the bedroom door.  If they are good enough to knock, I'll have the knife and I can go stabby stabby as I push them back out side and over the railing.  Stabby stabby until we land on the Russian lady's Chevy.  The ammonia can be flung if they come through the open door.  Give me enough time to get the shotgun.

I've never been more scared and I've gone to the drug store for pregnancy tests on more than one occasion.
 
2018-10-30 10:33:34 PM  
A man awoke in a coffin and began to panic.

He tried to kick at the walls of the padded aluminum box, or roll back and forth as much as his shoulders might allow, but he found that he could not feel his body in the slightest. In fact, there was no sensation in any nerves at all, only a tingly, stinging cold that seemed to surround his conscious like a cocoon, his thoughts locked well inside the bony recesses of his skull. He realized that he could only look up, straight ahead, and was unable to blink his eyes, his vision dull and clouded in a thick darkness.

There must have been a mistake. He shouldn't have been there, in a coffin. It wasn't what was supposed to happen. Coffins were for dead people, and he was wide awake. Somehow, someone would have to find him there, rescue him, keep him from such an untimely and excruciating demise. To be buried alive, my god!

Then, he remembered dying.

He remembered it all, suddenly very clearly. The long stay at the hospital, the news that there was nothing more to be done. Saying goodbye to a parade of somber family and friends as the doctors huffed about with withered expressions. The endless prayers and planning and paperwork, the tears and strained hugs. Finally, he remembered the last thing he could truly remember: peacefully watching the dim, brilliant colors of a sunset reflected across the only wall he could see from his bed and room. He remembered watching as the colors changed from orange to pink to purple, and then succumbed to darkness. There was a loud tone, somewhere, calling voices and applied pressure that seemed to fade further and further away until huge shocks of energy smacked his mind like thunder, splitting the dark, leaving only nothingness. The distant voices faded until they were gone.

Then, he remembered that there was a funeral.

His funeral, so strangely distant and ethereal, like a half-remembered dream. He heard the singing and all the lovely things that people said about him, as he floated somewhere in the abyss, lost in his mind. He remembered the dull, faraway sensation of light hitting him, as rows of people walked by his body and blocked the bright lights above. He could feel the warm glow of candles and the smell of freshly cut flowers. The sounds of weeping, and playing children, people mourning and loving and laughing. Then, they had closed the coffin on him. He remembered the stilted sound of enclosed air, the flat, blunted voices outside the coffin. The bumping and banging as they took his body away.

There must be a mistake. It couldn't be right. Nobody should be awake in a coffin, even if they had died.

But then it occurred to him, what if that was what death truly was, beyond any earthly concept of heaven or hell? What if he was merely a consciousness, wrapped in skin and muscle and tissue? Could he really be trapped there, six feet underground, alone in the dark, left to decay in a rotting, lifeless body? Stuck awake, helpless, lifeless, seemingly forever? Or at least until his brain matter finally succumbed to the maggots and worms and parasites that ate through it?

He could think of nothing more horrifying... until he remembered that he had requested to be cremated.
 
2018-10-30 10:49:50 PM  
Not so much a story, but I went exploring an abandoned house with my stepsister.  Before we went in, I took a picture. ...

img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 10:50:44 PM  
Last year, the thread got started the week before Halloween which I think is what killed it. Here's one of mine I posted way the heck near the end last year:

I was 4 or 5 and sleeping in a real bed, mind you. I had one of those anti-fall mesh rails that sat under the mattress and, because I was 4 or 5, I refused to go to sleep unless my lamp was on. The lamp was within arm's reach on my dresser right next to my bed. It wasn't a very big room but it had all the necessities. My bed was pushed up against the one and only wall where it would fit, which was parallel to the wall with a window that looked into the front yard. One night, I don't know what woke me up, I sat bolt upright in bed. My lamp was off and I remember thinking "Why is my lamp off? Is the power out?"

I noticed a white glow emanating from outside my window, a good distance up off the ground. It was a ways away from the house as well. Without warning, the glow is moving swiftly towards my window. As it gets closer, I can see it is mostly mist but what totally freaks me is the window flies open, the heavy curtains on both sides are blown inwards, flapping as though caught in a terrific gust of wind. The white glowing mist darts in through the window and it's ... large. At least, larger than it first appeared. It is roughly 3' x 2', somewhat elongated and lacking any remarkable details. It hangs there, over the floor, just further in the room than my Fisher-Price orange and yellow play table, which was pushed up against that wall with the window.

My brain just can't even.
My mouth opens to scream and, try as I might, I can't. The sound just isn't coming and I'm frozen in place, sitting upright, staring at this ... mist which is, for all intents and purposes, staring back at me. Without warning, the mist disappears, the window slams shut, the curtains fall limp, my lamp suddenly is on and the scream that I had tried so hard to summon before is now full force, as if I had been screaming the entire time. My dad comes running in, asking me what is wrong and I babbled for a time before telling him the story. I got a hug and a "it was just a dream, go back to sleep."

Years later, I told the story again to my family. My grandmother insisted it was my guardian angel but frankly, after discovering sleep paralysis (thanks, Farkers!), my money is on that.
....... I've never had any sleep paralysis events since then.
 
2018-10-30 10:57:06 PM  
One more. This happened in 1969. I was 9 years old and home sick by myself. I believe it was around noon because my favorite cartoon was on. I was sitting on the couch with my dog, Scout, when he started to growl. This was weird in itself as I had never heard him growl before, only barking. He was at the picture window looking out so I got up to look. Pulling very slowly into our long driveway was a very old antique police car. I couldn't see a driver in the car. Scout started growling even louder and I was hit with a feeling of intense fear and anger. I dont know why I did what I did next, maybe instinct, but I ran out the back door, climbed into the crawl space under the house with the dog and made my way to the front to check out the weird cop car. Scout was still growling quietly as I looked out between the siding cracks. The car was gone! There was no way the car could have backed out the 150 yards to the road and driven out of sight in the 10-15 seconds it took me to get under and to the front of the house! I was shaken and confused as I waited for my parents to come home. When I told them, they both said they believed me as a few other people had reported seeing it, and like my experience the car disappeared. Both of my stories are true to the best of my memories. Happy Halloween Farkers.
 
2018-10-30 10:57:18 PM  
img.fark.netView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 10:57:28 PM  
Last Halloween, I won some money in Las Vegas.  As easy things come & go, my money easily turned into a gigantic sack of cocaine shared with 2 older guys I met at the card table & 3 strippers.   This went on nonstop for days.  It was the morning of the 3rd or 4th day, & I decided I needed to start the day of right with healthy breakfast, so I got myself a bottle of Stella.  Strange, because normally I hate Stella with a passion.
By late morning, I found myself in an increasing stupor, so (with great difficulty finding it) I went up to my room & did what anyone might do in the same situation.  So I stripped naked & sprinkled cocaine all over my body from head to toe... just properly powdered myself.  I'm sitting there on a chair, naked, covered in blow, when I hear the door open, I look up to see who's entering my room... and it's me.  Concurrently, I walk into my hotel room & find myself sitting on a chair, naked, covered in cocaine.  The me in the door saw nakedness & cocaine & immediately exclaimed "YeeeeaAAAH!"  Like there's a pile of blow & we're gonna just rail it.  All of it.

So here's where it gets weird.

There's 2 of me, & I can experience both of me at the same time, yet I'm in 2 separate physical bodies.  I snort all the blow off my other me's naked body, & the 2 of me party nonstop in Las Vegas with 3 strippers for another 2 consecutive days.  The 2 me's would double team 1 girl, we'd rotate girls, I had relations with my other me.
//after 3 days of blow, I turned into 2 people & partied with 3 strippers for 2 more days.  nonstop.
The End.
 
2018-10-30 10:57:39 PM  
When I was 16, my room was on the second story of our house. My closet had a small door that was connected to the attic and the hot water heater was there. My parents were out of town and it was just my little brother who was 14 at the time home with me. We had an alarm system and 2 large dogs, so I wasn't very concerned about staying home as I've done a few times before. That is, until...

The first night I heard what I swore was someone cough, but not from the direction of where my brother was sleeping. I heard it again and what sounding like dull noises in the walls. One particular sound really startled me and made our dogs growl. I called my older brother who had an apartment about 10 minutes away and he came over. I told him everything and felt like a wuss and told him it was probably nothing but he went looking through the house with me and couldn't find anything. To make us feel better he had us come with him to stay at his apartment though. Before we left, I put some plastic storage bins in front of the crawl space attic door.

Fast forward and we are at our brother's apartment with our dogs getting ready for bed and our parents call us saying the alarm company called them and asked if we tripped it. We told them we were at our older brother's place (but not the whole story). The cops went by and didn't see any broken windows or open doors.

The next day, we went over to the house with our brother and sure enough all of the doors were locked, windows shut and locked, no broken windows etc. The alarm had lost power it looked like and went off. Well, we went upstairs and I checked the closet and sure enough the containers I put in front of the door were moved. That is when I got actually scared. I told my older brother about the containers and he was definitely concerned but tried to hide it. He peeked in with a flashlight and we didn't see anything. We walked the entire house and searched everywhere - nothing.

Our parents got home later that day, but we still never told them the full details. When my dad was walking into the house though, our neighbor pulled him aside and was talking to him. After a while my dad came in and told us that someone tried to break into their house the previous night and they saw them jump over our fence on the camera. They were asleep at the time so had no clue, but wanted to let us know. Apparently, that same evening down the street someone had stabbed a couple in their home not too terribly far away.

It was at this time, we told my parents our experience. My dad was very concerned and of course my mom was freaking out, but the alarm was set in our house and we had our dogs. I don't know how anyone could have broken in. My dad did his own "investigation" with his revolver to ensure the house was safe, which it was. No bad guys. It took me a few months to not be a little weirded out about staying home without them (even at 16), but I never thought about it for the longest time.

Until...my parents went to sell their house and had to do some renovations. The contractor told them they needed to replace the hot water heater in my old closet attic space. Upon doing their inspections, they discovered some loose boards on the side of the house where what looked like small animals were getting in and nesting. Additionally, they discovered a kitchen knife in the attic wrapped in a dirty cloth.
 
2018-10-30 10:57:42 PM  
My father was a civil engineer. My mother was a spoiled rotten trophy wife. While I was still in the womb, they went and bought one of the largest houses in Plainfield, Wisconsin where something was terribly amiss.
My father traveled a lot. And the house needed work. My mother had never so much as washed dishes in her whole life, and she was pregnant with me, so my parents needed a little help. So my father hired this odd little man named Ed who used to spend most of his time hanging out at this mom and pop grocery store to look after the house and yard. According to my mothers cousins, my mom used to work Ed almost to death, and then shortchange him on his wages.
One day, when my father was in town, it was snowing heavily, so he decided to drive to the farmhouse where Ed lived and pick him up. My father couldnt drive all the way up to the farmhouse because the road wasn't plowed, but he drove up as far as he could, and then started honking his horn.
While my father was honking his cars horn, he noticed what he thought was a haunch of venison hanging in the open door of Ed's barn. When Ed finally came out and got into the car, my father smacked him and told him that hunting deer was cruel. Ed meekly told my father that he never hunted deer.
A couple of weeks later, my father is far away working in Texas when he gets a phone call from my mother. Shes in a panic. She tells my father that somebody was murdering women in Plainsfield, and that she was all alone, and she wanted my father to come home
right now right away this very instant.
My father couldnt do that. It was the fifties. It would've taken a week at least. So he called up one of the neighbors instead, and asked that neighbor to over go to Eds farmhouse and pick up Ed. Ed wasnt very much, my father explained, but at least he was something.
Well, the neighbor drove over to Eds farmhouse, and he was rather surprised to see very nearly every cop in Wisconsin there.
I was born a full month later. My mother had carried me for ten months. I guess I didn't want to come out until it was safe. But soon.afterwards, my family moved to California just to be sure.
Eds last name was Gein. He later became Robert Blochs real-life inspiration for his character Norman Bates for his novel Psycho and for the horror movie The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
That was the story as I have been telling it because that was how it was told to me.
The truth is that Ed Gein was arrested almost a week after I was born (my mom had still carried me for ten months). At the time of the arrest, they did find the body of one of Ed's victims dressed out like a deer and hanging in a shed.
My parents had arrived in Plainfield in 1955. They had run afoul of the KKK in Louisiana and had moved away as far as they could without leaving the country. While they were in Wisconsin, they gave the KKK a final middle finger salute by helping the first black man get elected sheriff there.
In 1956, my father had started employing Ed Gein as a handyman. And it was that November when my father tried to drive up to Ed's farmhouse to pick up Ed.
In summer of 1957, the citizenry of Plainfield began to realize that something was very, very wrong in their community. They were acting like baby chicks in a barnyard being buzzed by a chickenhawk. Thankfully the horror ended and the people of Plainfield celebrated a true Thanksgiving the following month.
Decades ago at a book fair here in Las Vegas, I finally managed to talk to Robert Bloch himself about my familys involvement with
Ed Gein. He told me that while he was in Plainfield doing research for his book, that he had indeed met and talked to my mother before my family had moved out of Wisconsin.
"Oh God, I remember that woman," Mr. Bloch said, "She thought my book was going to be about her."
And although he had never heard this particular take on the haunch of venison story before, he did tell me that as far as he knew, Ed had never shot a deer in his life.
Mr. Bloch then said that doing research in Plainfield was a little bit like investigating the Jack the Ripper murders. There was an official count of victims, and then there was the unofficial count of victims. Many of Plainfields residents felt that they never caught the real murderer, and that people had kept on going missing, and that graves continued to be disturbed in the outlying cemeteries.
Some of the townies went as far as to tell Mr. Bloch that Ed Gein was only somebody's or something's Renfield.
But whatever the case was, its been almost six decades since Ed Gein was caught and sent to a mental asylum where he spent the rest of his life. And I imagine that the good people of Plainfield have never stopped locking their doors and windows before going to bed.
 
2018-10-30 11:04:25 PM  

J_Kushner: Last Halloween, I won some money in Las Vegas.  As easy things come & go, my money easily turned into a gigantic sack of cocaine shared with 2 older guys I met at the card table & 3 strippers.   This went on nonstop for days.  It was the morning of the 3rd or 4th day, & I decided I needed to start the day of right with healthy breakfast, so I got myself a bottle of Stella.  Strange, because normally I hate Stella with a passion.
By late morning, I found myself in an increasing stupor, so (with great difficulty finding it) I went up to my room & did what anyone might do in the same situation.  So I stripped naked & sprinkled cocaine all over my body from head to toe... just properly powdered myself.  I'm sitting there on a chair, naked, covered in blow, when I hear the door open, I look up to see who's entering my room... and it's me.  Concurrently, I walk into my hotel room & find myself sitting on a chair, naked, covered in cocaine.  The me in the door saw nakedness & cocaine & immediately exclaimed "YeeeeaAAAH!"  Like there's a pile of blow & we're gonna just rail it.  All of it.

So here's where it gets weird.

There's 2 of me, & I can experience both of me at the same time, yet I'm in 2 separate physical bodies.  I snort all the blow off my other me's naked body, & the 2 of me party nonstop in Las Vegas with 3 strippers for another 2 consecutive days.  The 2 me's would double team 1 girl, we'd rotate girls, I had relations with my other me.
//after 3 days of blow, I turned into 2 people & partied with 3 strippers for 2 more days.  nonstop.
The End.


media.giphy.comView Full Size
 
2018-10-30 11:08:38 PM  

J_Kushner: Last Halloween, I won some money in Las Vegas.  As easy things come & go, my money easily turned into a gigantic sack of cocaine shared with 2 older guys I met at the card table & 3 strippers.   This went on nonstop for days.  It was the morning of the 3rd or 4th day, & I decided I needed to start the day of right with healthy breakfast, so I got myself a bottle of Stella.  Strange, because normally I hate Stella with a passion.
By late morning, I found myself in an increasing stupor, so (with great difficulty finding it) I went up to my room & did what anyone might do in the same situation.  So I stripped naked & sprinkled cocaine all over my body from head to toe... just properly powdered myself.  I'm sitting there on a chair, naked, covered in blow, when I hear the door open, I look up to see who's entering my room... and it's me.  Concurrently, I walk into my hotel room & find myself sitting on a chair, naked, covered in cocaine.  The me in the door saw nakedness & cocaine & immediately exclaimed "YeeeeaAAAH!"  Like there's a pile of blow & we're gonna just rail it.  All of it.

So here's where it gets weird.

There's 2 of me, & I can experience both of me at the same time, yet I'm in 2 separate physical bodies.  I snort all the blow off my other me's naked body, & the 2 of me party nonstop in Las Vegas with 3 strippers for another 2 consecutive days.  The 2 me's would double team 1 girl, we'd rotate girls, I had relations with my other me.
//after 3 days of blow, I turned into 2 people & partied with 3 strippers for 2 more days.  nonstop.
The End.


User name checks out.
 
2018-10-30 11:24:12 PM  
Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said... Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said... Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...Once upon a time there was this man and a big hungry giant. The man ran from this hungry giant, but the hungry giant caught him and said "Tell me a scary story for my amusement. Afterwards, I will kill you, and break your bones to make my bread." The man stood up in the giant's hand, cleared this throat and said...
 
2018-10-30 11:42:34 PM  
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2018-10-30 11:58:26 PM  
Nothing that follows is untrue. The only exaggeration is my storytelling ability.

Age: 16.
Gender: M.
Social status: Poor, poorly educated.
Emotional state: Just short of uicidal.
Year: 1987.

I'd been asked to the Sadie Hawkins dance by one of the coolest girls in school. She was only slightly less cool than the girl who'd recently broken my heart in a somewhat public way.

When I got to her house to pick her up in my BMW, the one my grandma had dipped into her retirement fund to help me buy, a 1975 maroon 2002 model with a sunroof and Alpine stereo, she and my closest female friend were there together for some reason. They said they needed to talk and went out the back door.

I sat in the living room with her twin sister and their grandmother for half an hour and finally her sister told me that maybe I should go out to see if I could find them. I couldn't. But now I was outside the house and would have to knock on the door to get back inside. I decided to just drive away.

I couldn't just start my car in the driveway because that would expose to them how long I waited out there looking for them, so I put the car in neutral and pushed it uphill and out of the driveway. I pop started it on the incline of the road outside their house and drove away. I had been listening to The Smiths non-stop for months and slid The Queen is Dead into my cassette player. "I know it's over, still I cling, I don't know where else I can go..."

I drove up into the canyon to a spot I knew was unprotected by guardrails and had a deadly drop. I'd scouted it as a suicide drive for months, knowing exactly where I would need to veer off the road in order to hit it. It was protected heavily against unintended mishaps, but to a young man with a desire to die could easily see a deadly path.

I switched to Strangeways as I drove up, somewhat dedicated, but also earnestly exploring how it would feel at the kill switch moment. In hindsight, I'm fairly sure I wouldn't have done it. I would have rolled back home silently, full of shame and grief, afraid to go back to school, afraid of those girls. I was dying inside and had no easy way out, but I really never did. This was what I wanted to escape, but never had the courage to do it.

I passed that lookout point I had scouted for a long, long time and continued up. This canyon is insanely deadly - or it looked that way back then. A few hundred yards later I turned at the bend I already knew so well that would accommodate a u-turn, and headed back down.

Just then, my headlights began to dim and I couldn't see the reflector markers that showed me the turnout for the lookout point I had intended to fling myself over in my car. I panicked thinking that I might just end up ramming myself into a dirt bank and having to walk several miles out of this scary as hell and dark canyon. It was fine when I was going to die in it, but living in it right now with now lights scared me senseless.

Morrissey's voice crooning, "and if you should die I may feel slightly sad, but I won't cry" reminded me that my lights will last slightly longer if I turn off the stereo. So it was silent as I carefully attempted to navigate this treacherous canyon road back down. I'd basically driven myself into hell with no return plan and now was forced to come up with one.

The headlights dimmed and dimmed. There must have been a full moon that night because I could still see the road well enough and I made it back down that super winding uphill climb. And just as my headlights died and my dashboard was going blank, I hit a stretch that was just barely uphill enough to feel my car slowing.

Right then, from the passenger side of the road, a large spherical shadow tumbled out in front of me, causing me to slam and then release the brakes all at once as I acted instinctively to avoid hitting it and to keep going. This was the exact end of all of my forward momentum and my car rolled to a stop.

There was still a faint glow from my dashboard, exactly mimicking the the hope my soul still held that Satan wasn't coming to claim it. It disappeared very shortly after that.

Again, I waited just like I had in that stupid house, in that stupid back yard, in that stupid driveway, and now in my stupid car, way longer than I thought was right. I opened my car door and looked out. Nothing. Total darkness. I stood on the edge of the door frame and tried to figure out what to do next. I was so scared, but did seem to grasp that my fear was my biggest challenge. I leapt.

Nothing grabbed me. Nothing was under my car. I pushed it to a campground parking lot and finally hitched home. I eventually lived and found a way out of that place. I was hospitalized the next day and it saved my life because, after the canyon, I was no longer afraid of death. My next attempt would have been far less complicated and certainly more deadly. Learning to live after that felt like nothing less than digging my way out from under 6 feet of solid earth and took years.
 
2018-10-31 12:08:20 AM  

poorjon: A long time ago I was driving through a midwinter storm with my fiancé. The roads were slick, and it was a total whiteout. We were going to some BS party across town and probably should have skipped because of the weather but we were young and stupid and there was going to be karaoke. Who doesn't love karaoke?
Anyway, I was crossing an intersection (clear on my end, stop signs on the cross street) when the world turned sideways and got a LOT more painful than seemed reasonable.
A huge black car came out of nowhere and t-boned the passenger side of my Saturn (Yaaay dent resistant panels yaaay). Best they could tell, my car rolled over, glanced off a power pole, then slid into the ditch. I still remember the black car sitting there for maybe a minute, then it just backed up, turned around, and disappeared into the storm.
I was pinned in my seat and had a broken leg, and some busted up ribs, but Karen got the worst of it. Saving the details, she passed in the ambulance on the way to the ER. I don't blame the EMTs. They worked their asses off and did everything they could. It was all that other driver's fault.
My head was pretty banged up and I only caught a glimpse of him, but his face is burned into my memory: Tall and thin with greasy dark hair and a little Pugsley nose. Weirdest part is where his left eye should have been there was just a wad of white cotton sticking out of the socket. I'll never forget it. The only other piece of ID I could get was he had a vanity plate that said "JOSEF". Even with that, somehow the cops never found the guy. Far as I know, the son of a biatch is still out there bringing destruction wherever he goes.
To this day I still think that if it hadn't been for Cotton-Eye Joe I'd been married a long time ago. Where did you come from, where did you go? Where did you come from, Cotton-Eye Joe?


You. Brilliant. Bastard.
 
2018-10-31 12:30:18 AM  
When I was ten (~1989) there was an incident where it was summertime and getting past dusk and into night, and I was in the living room watching television.  I just happened to glance to my left, and there was someone standing behind the blinds outside, just staring the hell out of me.  I freaked out, screamed, parents came running, my father went charging outside.  Whoever it had been had run off.

Less than a week later we come back from a family trip to the store, and the front door to the house is open.  My mother and I carried stuff in to the kitchen while my father went looking around to see if someone had been in there.  Two minutes later he comes hauling ass down the stairs, yelling GET OUT GET OUT.  We go outside and he runs over to the neighbor's house to use the phone and call the cops.  Two cars eventually come.  One set of cops wait outside, front and back doors, and the other goes inside, room by room.  Eventually, we get the all clear and go back inside.  I'm weirded out and not getting any answers.  Over the next few days, my father replaces all the door locks and make sure all the window locks are solid.  Bilco doors, everything.  Nothing else happens aside from some uneasy nights.

Fast forward about ten years, I happen to remember this whole thing, and I asked my father about what the hell had happened.  He went pale, but went into his bedroom to get something and came down to the living room.  He didn't find anyone, he said.  He just found something.  A picture, he said.  It was in my bedroom, on the pillow of my bed.  He dropped a polaroid on my lap.

It was a Polaroid of course.  It was a picture of my bedroom.  With me, lying on the bed, asleep.  Taken from between the slats of the closet.  Back in those days, sometimes depending on what Polaroid you had, it'd put a day and time stamp on the picture.  It was that year, and it was summer, but it had been taken a month before I first saw somebody watching me.

We never got any answers.  I've got my own family and my own place, but I can tell you that the locks at my place are solid and the blinds don't have any slats.
 
2018-10-31 12:30:50 AM  

biatchqueen: [img.fark.net image 850x637]


Is that your friend in the picture?
 
2018-10-31 12:34:23 AM  

Parthenogenetic: It was late, and he walked softly into the study, to avoid waking his wife and children sleeping upstairs. The dim glow of the computer screen saver provided the only meager illumination, and cast twisted, elongated shadows that seemed to twitch of their own accord. He suppressed a curse as he stepped on a goddamn Lego and kicked it into a corner.

He sat, sipped his beer, and carefully placed it where he wouldn't accidentally tip it while using the mouse. He frowned as he opened the browser, and closed the dozen tabs. A bookmark was clicked, and an eldritch pulse of electrical ones and zeros summoned his desire.

But tonight was Halloween, and malevolent spirits had slipped into the realm of the living to skulk, to weep, to taunt, to gibber... and to inflict torment.

He leapt back as a shadowy cloud billowed forth from the screen. Slowly, it took the form of a gaunt, grimacing face. "What the hell- ?"

"THIS IS NO HELL. NOT YET."

"What the Fark- ?"

"SPEAK NOT. I HAVE COME TO WARN YOU. THAT WHICH YOU ONCE LOVED IS GONE FOREVER. ONLY ONCE MAY YOU SAVOR ECHO5JULIET'S DRIVE THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. ONLY ONCE MAY YOU SHIVER AT THE TALE OF QUEXY'S FISHY COMPANION. THE DRAUGHT ONCE DRANK CAN NEVER BE SAVORED IN THE SAME WAY AGAIN."

Another wisp of shadow issued forth, and formed a pointing hand.

"YOU ARE CURSED. NEVER MORE SHALL YOU ENJOY THE HALLOWEEN THREAD, FOR LO! IT IS NAUGHT BUT FILCHED CREEPYPASTA, TRITE POLITICAL JOKES, WALLS O' TEXT, REPOSTS, AND THE DANKEST OF MEMES."

"Spirit! What horror is this...!"

"AND YOUR CHILDREN. YOUR PRECIOUS CHILDREN SHALL ONE DAY READ THIS CRAP, AND THEY WILL DEEM IT FRESH, AND GOOD.  THEY WILL BE N00BS."

"NO! NOOoooOOooOOOooooOOOO!"

"LMAO... GET OFF MY LAAAAAWWWWWNNNnnnnnnnnn..."


Thank you for linking to echo5juliet's "Twentynine Palms" story. I look forward to reading it every year.
 
2018-10-31 12:46:59 AM  
Supposedly the world's shortest horror story:

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door...
 
2018-10-31 12:57:17 AM  

WordsnCollision: Supposedly the world's shortest horror story:

The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door...


It was a woman knocking. She still turned him down.
 
2018-10-31 1:00:45 AM  
ahhh..love this thread.
My own story....
On vacation in Mexico with family, got horribly ill.
Woke up and heard my little brother talking to my parents about a white and black figure by my bed, just eyes (no mouth) standing at the foot of my bed. They didn't know I was awake and listening.
It's been over 20 years now and I still haven't asked him about it.

I guess one other major scare-  In my hotel room one night I got up to pee, saw a figure standing in the bathroom doorway....I literally screamed like a little girl...the bathroom door had a mirror on it.

/true stories.
 
bav
2018-10-31 1:15:27 AM  
I'm 42 and I know how and roughly when I'm going to die.
*****
In 2004, I was working student tech support at the law school of my local university.   I was walking through the halls carrying a desktop from one of the labs to my workstation when a police officer came up the stairs, saw me, and asked if I knew where bav's office was.

"I'm bav - what can I do for you, officer?"

"Is there someplace we can talk in private?"

I took him to a side study room and he shut the door.

"You should sit down.   I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but we received a phone call from the police department in your hometown - your father passed away a few days ago in his home and was found this morning."

"You're joking."

"I wish I was, son.   Do you have anyone I can call to come take you home?"

"My girlfriend."

"What's her number?"

Officer Davies called her and explained the situation to her.  They agreed that he would take me back to my place and she'd meet us there.   By this point, I was in shock - no tears yet, just a numbness throughout my body and I started disassociating a bit.   He gave me a hug, found my boss, told her what was going on, and drove me to my apartment.

By that point the shock started wearing off and the tears started coming.  My girlfriend sat there with me for an hour as I went through waves of hysterical crying followed by silence followed by more crying.  That afternoon, we drove to my hometown across the state, checked into a hotel, and then went to my dad's place.   A few minutes after we arrived, his best friend (Bill) showed up.  Bill explained that he was the one who found my dad after a missed breakfast meeting and no answers or replies to repeated phone calls.

This was Valentine's Day, 2004.  My girlfriend and I had been together for 5 months.
*****
The rest of the week was a blur of doing what you have to do - contacting friends and family, making the arrangements for the funeral & the burial, figuring out what clothing my father should be in....all the little things that need to be taken care of.  The thing that you focus all your energy on so that you're not completely destroyed by the crushing enormity of what's happened.   That's for late at night when you can't work on anything else.

You think the worst part was calling some of your dad's friends over the years to deliver the news and ask if they'd be pall-bearers.

Do the visitation.  Do the funeral.  Listen to everyone tell you how good a job the funeral home had done covering up all the mottling and bruising on his face because of the blood settling there for 3 days, even though they messed up the haircut and the make-up was the wrong shade of flesh-tone.  Put up with the Baptist minister making snide comments during the services about how my dad (a born-again Christian) found God and was saved and how he, the minister, sincerely hoped that the Jewish family (my dad's sister, my mother, myself) would see the light and convert so we could join him in Heaven.  Do the burial, stand outside in the rain after everyone's left and the grave-diggers start filling in the gravesite.  You do this because he shouldn't be alone.

After the immediate situation settles down, there's all the other things to do:  Clean out the house.  Put things into storage.  Write thank-you letters to those who came to the funeral.  Handle the estate.

Learn how to deal with the new reality.

Have your relationship dissolve because it was too new to handle the death of immediate family.

Try to figure out how to forgive yourself for your father dying alone.

Myocardial infarction.  He was 58.
******
Flash forward 6 years - 2010:

My mother had been laid off during the Great Recession and wasn't able to find a job afterwords.  She applied and she applied but any place that was paying a living wage and were hiring had over 200 applications for each open position and not a lot of places were interested in hiring a 56 year old woman over the other applicants.  She lived off of severance & unemployment until they both ran out, and was evicted from her apartment 3 months after for not paying rent.   Being the proud woman she was, she never mentioned how bad things were to the family - my aunt, uncle, and I knew she was laid off and were helping out financially where we could, but *I* didn't know how bad it was until I got the phone call asking if I could help her move her things into a storage unit.

Around that time, I was looking to move out of the place I shared with a friend and get my own place.  I found a 2-bedroom apartment and tried to convince her to move in with me as the job market was better in my town.  She refused multiple times, saying that something would work out and she didn't want to interfere with my life.

I shouldn't have taken no for an answer.  I should have kept at her until she said yes.

After spending a summer couch-surfing w/ various friends, something finally did work out  - a friend of hers was taking a new job in North Carolina.  She & her husband were underwater on their home in Battle Creek, but were hoping to sell it.  They made a deal with my mom that she could stay there rent-free while they were looking to sell the place, so that the house wouldn't be classified as abandoned by the city.  My uncle drove out from the East Coast and I met them at the storage unit and we loaded everything into his pick-up and moved her into her own place.

What we didn't know at that time was by that point, my mom didn't have insurance.  This meant she didn't have access to get her meds that were treating her clinical depression.  When asked, she would lie and say she was still on them.  But the reality was that he had been off them for a while, which sent her into a spiral - she was too depressed to go job hunting, too depressed to try and get insurance through the Market Place.  Too depressed to leave the house.

Too depressed to ask for help.  From anyone.  Her best friend Jeanne suspected it, but when she'd bring it up, my mom would get upset to a point where she'd kick Jeanne out or storm off.   I still thank God that Jeanne knew it was the depression and the embarrassment talking, not my mom.

Around Valentine's Day in 2011, I called my mom to check in on her.  The number was disconnected.  I freaked out and called the local police to do a wellness check.  The cops called back about a half-hour later and put my mom on the phone - her cell phone service had been shut off for non-payment.   I explained to her that she could not let that happen - the nearest person to my mom who cared about her lived an hour away - she had to have a working phone so we knew she was alive.  I drove out the next day, paid her phone bill, and had the service put into my name.
*******
Flash forward 1 1/2 years - November, 2012.  Different job, new girlfriend - we had been together for a little over 5 months.

8 days before Thanksgiving, I called my mom to invite her out to my place for Thanksgiving dinner.  She wasn't sure about it as she didn't like driving in the dark anymore. I told her that she could stay at my place and drive back on Black Friday.   Or I could drive out to her place and we could do dinner there, but the fact was I didn't want her spending Thanksgiving by herself.  She said she'd think about it and call me in a couple of days to let me know which she'd prefer.

I called her a couple of days later to follow up with her, and the phone went to voice mail.  I left a message asking her to call me back because we had to figure out what was going on that next week.   I got caught up with work that weekend, and didn't really resurface out of it until that Monday, 3 days before Thanksgiving.  I realized I hadn't heard back from my mom and tried calling her again.

Voice mail.

I tried again an hour later.  Voice mail.

At this point, I had a sinking feeling in my gut.  I called Jeanne and asked her if she'd drive the hour to check on my mom and find out why she wasn't answering her phone or returning my calls.

An hour and a half later, Jeanne called back.

"bav, are you sitting down?  I think you should sit down."

"She's gone, isn't she?"

"Please, bav, sit do-."

"I already know.  Please just say it."

"Yes, she's gone.   The medical examiner is on the way, but we think she died a few days ago.   She was in the bathroom and when she fell, she hit her head on the bathtub.  I'm glad I found her and not you."

Myocardial infarction.  She had laid there in the bathroom for 3 days.  She was 58.
******
Again with burying yourself in the details - it's like last time but with some little differences.   This time, a co-worker drives you home.  Disassociate until your girlfriend comes over from work.  Sit with her for an hour, crying, then drive across the state.

Go to the funeral home to make the arrangements.  Ask to see your mother.  Have the funeral director say she's in bad shape and he doesn't think you should see her.  Bargain with him until you compromise on having her brought out under a sheet with a hand exposed.    This is how you get to say your private goodbye.

Talk to an old family friend who's now a Pentecostal minister.  You remember bad experiences years ago with the church he belongs to, they ran another friend of the family out of town for associating with Jews but he stood up to the church and defended you and your mom.   Ask him to preside over the services and if he could keep Jesus to a minimum out of respect.   But hey - you can't have everything different, so at your mother's funeral you get to listen to another speech about how the minister hopes that you find Jesus so at least you can get into Heaven.

Once the funeral is over, dig into finding the will and realize it's dated from 1977, when you were 1 year old.  It names your dad as the executor.   Talk to an old high school friend who's now a lawyer and is willing to help you settle the estate pro bono as they had always liked your mom.   Move her stuff out of the house and into storage.  Write thank-you letters to those who attended the funeral.  Over the year-and-a-half process of going through probate, realize you're getting what you paid for in legal services.

Learn how to deal with the new reality.

Have your relationship dissolve because it was too new to handle the death of immediate family.

Try to figure out how to forgive yourself for your mother dying alone.

Try to figure out if you can ever forgive yourself for not fighting her - fighting for her - harder.
********
I'm 42 and I know how and roughly when I'm going to die.

Sometime in 2034.

Myocardial infarction.

Alone.
 
2018-10-31 1:16:45 AM  
I have to keep my bedroom door closed when I sleep because I can't convince myself to ignore whatever imaginary thing it is that's clearly not sitting on my bed next to me, since it acts exactly like my cat.
 
2018-10-31 3:00:31 AM  
i.imgur.comView Full Size
 
2018-10-31 3:56:09 AM  
I have dreams...and then I have dreams.

Most of the time, upon waking after sleep, I remember little to nothing of my dreams. At most, I have a vague notion of having dreamed with only a little actual content remembered that quickly slips from my grasp within a matter of minutes, if not seconds.

Other times, I remember my dreams clearly. Many of these I still remember today, though some happened years ago. These dreams are different. They have a sort of...continuity, though that isn't exactly the right word.
Places recur throughout these dreams. They aren't coherent and constant, as everyday places are. Though the geography and architecture are fluid, and may vary within a single dream, they are still the same "place" in my dreaming mind. They're archetypes that encompass elements both real and imagined: The House, The School, The University, The Library, The Store, The Mall, The Camp, as well as more fantastical places: The Castle, The Undercity, The Labratory, etc.
These are all, to my dream-self, as real as any place I visit while awake, and I recognize them instantly, though they may appear different than when I last saw them.
There are people in my dreams, too, many of them facsimiles of real people I know. There are others, however, who are just as real to me when I am dreaming who have no "real" counterpart. When I am dreaming, I know these people, and for the most part am as happy to see them as any of my waking friends.

I say "for the most part" because there is one person I am never happy to see. I don't "know" him as I know the other dream-people because I've never spoken to him, and don't know if I could if I tried.

I call him The Quiet Man. Unlike almost every other element of the dream-world, he is utterly and completely unchanging. He is always wearing a business suit (gray jacket and pants, white shirt, black tie, black shoes). He is pale of complexion, though not overly so. He is either bald or keeps his hair trimmed very short. He never approaches me. In fact, I only ever see him as if by chance, spotting him standing some distance away. Down the block, across a park, a few aisles away in the store, down the hallway of the house.
But every time I see him, he is standing perfectly still, looking at me. Watching me, motionless, expressionless. I call him the Quiet Man because the whole dream-world seems to get quieter when I see him. Sounds just sort of...drift away, like someone turned the volume knob of the world down until it is silent.

When I see him, I know things are about to get worse. The familiar dream-places will shortly (and swiftly) transform into their darker counterparts. Abandoned, gutted, burned-out, inhabited by lost and broken people who are all unknown to me or by warped creatures from Lovecraft's nightmares, or both.
Somehow, the Quiet Man is the harbinger of these changes.

The worst is The Dead House, the darker counterpart of The House. I call it that not because it is haunted (though it sometimes is), but because the building itself feels...dead, somehow. As if The House is a living, benevolent being and The Dead House is its rotting corpse. Not all of The Dead House appears abandoned, neglected, or destroyed. Some parts of it appear normal, but nothing feels right. Lights dim or go out on their own, electronics and appliances malfunction. Sounds are muted, or echo strangely. Furniture, floors, and walls feel as if they are coated with a layer of invisible dust or slime.

The House is a pleasant place that, though mutable, always has an exit. I can leave any time I want and go somewhere else.

The Dead House, for all I can tell, is infinite. It has no exit. Doors and windows that might appear to lead outside are unopenable. Rooms lead to rooms lead to more rooms, sometimes repeating, sometimes not. It is an infinite, inconstant labyrinth with only one constant throughout: the unmistakable feeling that I am not welcome. That someone, something, some entity, maybe the house itself, wants me OUT. An overbearing sense of hatred and malevolence at my presence.
I try to find a way out, knowing in the back of my mind that there isn't one. And all the time I feel that malice coming closer, not behind me, in front of me, or from any direction at all...just closer.

It has never caught me, if it is, in fact, chasing me at all. I always wake up.

The dark versions of the other places are unpleasant, and often frightening, but none of them measure up to The Dead House. I am a grown man, and have woken my wife up in the middle of the night to get her to hold me while I tremble after those dreams multiple times. I can't adequately describe the terror I feel in that place.

The people in my dreams, facsimiles of the real or wholly imagined, don't seem to know about the Quiet Man or the darker side of my dream world. In my more lucid moments, I've asked, but they never have any idea what I'm talking about.

What I'm really afraid of, a dread that has kept me awake on more than a few nights, is that I will be awake, living my normal life, and I will see the Quiet Man across the street, behind the checkout desk at the library, on the empty playground when I drive up to pick up my daughter from school. Or, worst of all, in my house. The the real will peel away and I will be left with the darkness that is lurking beneath, with no waking world to escape to.
 
2018-10-31 5:43:55 AM  
meg12279:
Does it bother you that your former FIL watches you shower?
 
2018-10-31 5:45:28 AM  

BMFPitt: One upon a time, we elected Donald Trump, and have him the nuclear button.

/Mic drop


Ha ha ha, so funny and original.  Give yourself a round of applause.
 
2018-10-31 6:39:52 AM  

HedlessChickn: Donald Trump is President of the United States of America.

The end.


Donald Trump is re-elected President

/a third time
//dnrtft
 
2018-10-31 7:29:28 AM  
This happened to good friends- shared with their permission.

When Mary and Steve (Not their real names) met, part of their attraction for one another was their mutual love for desert hiking and camping. After dating for a while they transitioned to weekend outings to the high desert in eastern Oregon, visiting several times a year.

Mary and Steve both work in labs. Steve is a microbiologist and Mary is a geneticist. Neither is religious or even very patient with "spirituality" which they consider woo.

After dating and then living together for a few years, they were married. A couple years later their first child came along. Afterward trips to the desert were suspended as they adjusted to parenting. Their second child followed two years after that.

When their youngest was three, they finally planned a return to desert camping the first for their boys.  When the day came they left before dawn, crossing the cascades into eastern Oregon.

When they arrived at their destination near malheur, they all stepped out of the car to take in the vista before finding a place to set up camp. Their oldest son was nonchalant. Their youngest was very excited running around laughing and crying, overcome with emotion.

Steve and Mary were concerned. "What's wrong?" they asked their little boy. Through his tears he answered, "I'm so happy!" Steve and Mary smiled and hugged him. "Us too," they said.

Their son turned away from them and looked out on the desert, suddenly very calm. In a serious voice he said. "I've been here before."

Of course he hadn't.  Mary and Steve looked at each other. Mary, in a gentle voice, asked their son, " When have you been here?'

Still looking out on the desert, he replied calmly, 'when I was an Indian."
 
2018-10-31 7:51:01 AM  
I'm convinced that there are people in this world that are amplifiers for psychic abilities.

I had a friend named "Joe" who seemed to be one of those people. I was a student at U of I and I was working in the arts building. My friend was with me, I gathered up my supplies and left the building. It was a hazy night, pretty late. Joe was in the passengers seat. I tried to start the car. It sputtered then completely shut off. Suddenly the antique smell of rose water filled the car. The smell drifted from left to right. We both smelled it. As it drifted away, the car started no problem.

Another incident happened with this same friend. We were in the realtors building (dad was real estate agent)
We were copying zines. We noticed the back light in the bathroom was on. Joe said, there's nobody here and I didn't turn it on, I went back. The smell of old spice filled the bathroom then disappeared.

Joe said the previous owner lived in the back of the building and died of cancer in 1973. His fave cologne was, old spice.
 
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